He had a thing for cats. This time it was a beige mutt with large beautiful blue eyes. It played shy, but if he kept the door open long enough, the curiosity won over and the cat would run up the spiral stairs into his apartment. It would perform a thorough walkthrough and then settle either in his loft bed, or on the couch. Purr and sleep.

George opened his notebook. “I am too old for this shit”, he thought. He had been living in Paris for a few months now, but at this age (or level of wine consumption) his French was not getting any better. Pretty much all he could muster was “Bonjour Madame, café crème s’il vous plaît.”

The whole thing was ridiculous anyhow. He was used to fakery of all kinds, but Notre Dame? For Pete’s sake. George considered dropping the whole Zegna/scarf camouflage and going for a stereotypical American tourist look. God, he hated those guys. Sure, Notre Dame is not even owned by the church, but there are people who seem to be there for sincere reasons. Why not show some respect? He brushed the thought off. We are all here for the money, catholic church included.

The operation looked funky. Money changing at a place of worship. Classic. How many people walk into Notre Dame carrying a briefcase? He definitely had to go for some sort of idiotic hipster disguise.